


Waking

by Linden



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Consensual Somnophilia, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-10-01
Packaged: 2018-02-19 13:07:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2389358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linden/pseuds/Linden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam may never go to bed wearing pyjamas again.</p><p>Pretty much straight-up PWP, folks, 'cause it's been that kind of week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I usually like to write some plot with my porn, but then, you know, this happened.

**October 1999**

**10:07 PM**

It was a little after ten when Sam gave up on hoping his brother would call, and instead shut off the light and shucked off his clothes and curled up naked and grumpy beneath the soft sheets and warm heavy covers of his bed.

Dean, he decided, needed to come home.

Well, Dean needed to at least come _here_ , to the big soft double bed in one of the guest rooms in Jim Murphy’s rectory, where he and their father had left Sam three weeks ago to go hunt a were-bear in northern Minnesota. The rectory was quiet tonight—Jim’s two fellow priests were on a night shift at the hospice, and Jim himself was working downstairs in his den, the TV on low as he wrote his homily for the weekend’s Masses—and Sam was lonely. Tucked up on the second floor, he had a window cracked to the wet autumn night, and the black breeze coming in was cool and sharp and smelled like moldering leaves and the dying of the year, and he wanted to be lying here with his head on his brother’s chest and Dean’s warm arms wrapped around him, listening to the rain.

Sighing, he tugged the other pillow closer to himself, curled himself around it. It didn’t smell like Dean anymore, but it was warmth and comfort, all the same.


	2. Chapter 2

**11:17 PM**

This was, Sam thought, muzzily, the best goddamn dream of his _life_.

He’d been floating in it for awhile now, just enjoying the heat of it and the pleasure, both of which kept washing over him in sweet, heavy, dizzying waves. He couldn’t quite pinpoint what felt good or why, only that everything did, that he felt stretched and wonderfully _full_ , somehow, blanketed in warmth and scent and weight; and there was this . . . this _pressure_ and he couldn’t move and it was fucking _amazing_ and he was awake.

He was awake.

He was awake, and pinned to the mattress on his belly, and his brother was on top of him, naked, mounted, smelling of the cold October night and the road, and his slick cock was pumping in and out of Sam’s ass on a long, sweet burn.

‘Heya, Sammy,’ Dean murmured in his ear, as Sam gave up a choked, startled whine, and he could hear the smile in his brother’s voice, even if he couldn’t see it. Dean eased all the way back in and just rocked against him for a moment with tiny pulses of his hips, grinding, back and forth, back and forth, fingers laced together with Sam’s where he had Sam’s hands pressed palm-down beneath his in the sheets. His mouth was warm and damp against Sam’s cheek, broad chest pressed against his back, knees tucked firmly against the insides of Sam’s and forcing his thighs to stay spread. 'Miss me?'

Sam was willing to bet there was a universe somewhere in which he was capable of coherent speech right now, but this one was not it. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, could do nothing but _feel_ , and the shock of it all was so overwhelming that he was about seven seconds away from coming all over the sheets. He was already hard enough that he was leaking steadily into the soft cotton beneath him, and for the love of holy _fuck_ how long had Dean been in him?

‘Looked so pretty just lyin' here, little brother,’ Dean continued, in that gravelly, sex-shot voice that was doing absolutely nothing to help fend off the orgasm Sam could feel already building in the base of his spine. He whimpered and tried to rock back against his brother’s hips as Dean lengthened his thrusts again, but he couldn’t get the leverage, and got a sharp bite to his shoulder for the effort. ‘And you were all quiet and warm and so _sleepy,_ Jesus; I just slicked you up, slid right in. You never even felt my fingers stretchin’ you, did you.’

Sam panted, breathed, was fairly certain he was about to self-combust. Dean’s weight was pressing him down harder into the mattress, forcing his hips and cock against it in time with his brother’s roughening thrusts, and Sam’s helplessness was hitting him as hard as the sweet, shocky jolts of pleasure that kept rocketing through his body each time the thick head of his brother’s cock pushed in just _there_ , a hot heavy drag against his insides that had his toes curling, muscles tensing, high soft whimpery moans spilling out of his mouth.

‘Shhhh, shh shh.’  Dean nosed at the soft sensitive skin behind his ear. ‘Dad ‘n Jim are still up downstairs.’ He licked, nipped; Sam sank his teeth into his lip against a fucking _whine_. ‘Gotta be quiet for me, okay?’

Sam tried, couldn’t. Pushed his face into his pillow to muffle the noises Dean was wrenching out of him with every scrape of his teeth, every perfectly angled thrust. He squirmed beneath him, desperate, clenched his fingers tight around his brother’s; simultaneously needed to come like he needed fucking  _air_ and never wanted this to end. Dean’s breath was hot on the back of his neck.

‘This what you wanted, little brother?’ Dean whispered. ‘Hmm?

The words slipped in through a heavy haze of arousal, sparking a bright, sudden memory: Sam, mildly drunk, missing Dean, telling his brother on the phone a week ago that all he wanted was to wake up the next morning with Dean back in their bed and already inside of him. And Dean—Dean had _remembered_ and he’d—he’d—

Sam’s orgasm slammed into him fast and merciless and so, so hard, and for a moment he was aware of nothing but the brutal punch of white-hot pleasure that had him mewling into the pillow as his cock pulsed hot and wet and messy into the sheets beneath him. His vision greyed out, briefly; he turned his head to gasp in a shuddering breath as it came back, was fairly sure his cheek was resting in a puddle of his own spit. Didn’t care. He lay there panting, whimpering, limp and thoroughly sated, until Dean finished inside him a few minutes later, on a low hungry groan and with Sam’s name a broken breath on his lips.

The two of them lay together, silently, straining to hear anything beyond their door, but the house was quiet, just the faint, faint sounds of Jim’s voice and their father’s, and of the television on below. Sam closed his eyes, felt his big brother brush a soft, hesitant kiss across his shoulder, his cheek, the crook of his neck.

‘Okay?’ Dean asked, softly. There was genuine worry in there— _was this okay, are you okay_ —and Sam wanted to assure him that he was so far beyond ‘okay’ right now that he was currently floating happily in orbit around another planet, but what with his brain having liquefied and shot out through his cock, he couldn’t seem to remember any words. And wasn’t that going to be a bitch when the SATs rolled around next month.

‘Dude,’ was all he finally managed, but that seemed to be enough, because Dean chuckled, softly, relieved and smug. Sam kept his eyes shut, the aftershocks of pleasure still strumming through his bones. Jesus, he was never going to move again.

Dean seemed to feel the same, because his brother lay sprawled entirely on top of him for a little while longer, mouthing lazily at his sweat-damp skin. And though Sam was fairly certain his lungs were by now getting slowly compressed into his spleen or something beneath his brother’s muscled weight, he couldn’t bring himself to mind, because Dean felt impossibly good wrapped around him like this: his thick cock softening, slowly, inside of him, warm wet mouth sucking at the bite mark on his shoulder, fingers still tangled together with Sam’s in the sheets. Sam could feel his brother’s heartbeat thudding against his back, very nearly in time with his own.

Blanketed in heavy warmth, with the sweet sleepiness of orgasm weighing down every last muscle in his body, he was more than half-asleep again by the time Dean pulled out, slowly, with a soft kiss to the top of his spine, and rolled off of him and got up; was very nearly entirely asleep by the time his brother came back with a hot wet cloth to clean him. He shuddered in something that was neither pleasure nor pain, just . . . _sensation_ as Dean stroked easily, carefully over his sore puffy hole, the backs of his thighs, the soft skin behind his balls, wiping up a sticky mess of lube and semen both; a moment later his brother rolled him easily onto his back out of the damp patch on the sheets. Sam looked up at him, blinking slowly, as Dean wiped the smeared ropes of come off his stomach and thighs and soft, still-sensitive cock, as gentle with him like this as he always was. Muzzy with sleep and sex, Sam was trying, he _was_ , but he couldn’t quite get his brain all the way online, and the fact that his brother looked so stupidly, stupidly beautiful bent over him in the near-dark wasn’t helping. Somewhere between the bed and the bathroom down the hall, he’d pulled his jeans back on, but they were still unzipped and loose on his hips, and he was barefoot and shirtless in the dim yellow glow from the streetlight outside, hair tousled and fair skin flushed. He could have been . . . he could have been walking a runway somewhere in  . . . in _Milan_ , for Chrissakes, or wherever it was that ridiculously gorgeous people modeled ridiculously expensive clothes; five hundred years ago he could have sat for Michelangelo, and Sam didn’t understand, sometimes, how or why his brother seemed to want him just as much as Sam did him, because all Sam ever saw in his mirror was five feet and nine inches of messy hair and a too-wide smile and awkward, narrow bones, and Dean was so beautiful people literally stopped on the street sometimes to look at him, men and women both. Sam had seen it, more than once.

Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face, because Dean’s mouth quirked, once, sweetly, and he brushed a thumb across Sam’s cheekbone and bent to kiss him, soft and long, sucking gently at his lower lip. Sam’s chest ached with sudden warmth.

‘Go back to sleep, little brother,’ Dean told him, softly. ‘Need to get some food in me before I turn in. We're stayin' here for awhile, you and me, and Jim lined up a job for me on a road crew. I got work tomorrow at five.’

Sam tried to get a grip on him as his brother tucked him in on the warm dry side of the bed—Dean was clearly about to Go Away, and that was not okay, not okay at all—but Dean batted his hands away, gently, and tucked the sheets and blanket up close around him, the same way he had when both of them were kids. And that should have made this weird, Sam thought, but it didn’t; it was just . . . it was just _Dean_ , and he was thinking about how desperately he loved him as he tumbled back into sleep, his brother’s hand stroking softly through his hair.

***

**12:21 AM**

He was aware, dimly, sometime later, of Dean easing down onto the mattress beside him again, of a calloused familiar hand settling on his hip. Sam rolled sleepily into his brother, wrapped himself around him and pushed his face into Dean’s warm chest, and listened to Dean mutter about _a goddamn clingy baby monkey, Sam_ as Sam snuggled close and threw a leg over him and fell contentedly back asleep.

***

**6:35 AM**

Sam smacked his alarm clock through four snooze cycles before he admitted he had to get up.

He didn’t want to. Curled on his side like a little kid, he rolled onto his stomach, pressed his face into his pillow, and stayed there for a long moment. The rectory itself was silent. Dean had long since left for his new job (Sam had hazy, hazy recollections of a warm hand on his ribs, a warm mouth on his), Andrew and Callum wouldn't be back from the hospice until after eight, and Jim himself usually set out around six for his morning work at the church and parish schools—and God only knew where John was; he was as likely to still be sleeping as he was to be scanning newspapers in the kitchen or already gone on a case. Sam couldn’t much bring himself to care.  His pillow smelled like Dean’s shampoo and aftershave, and all Sam wanted was to keep his face buried in it and fall back asleep, snug and warm and wrapped up in his brother’s scent. Wanted to still be tucked up in bed when Dean came home that afternoon, wake up again to his brother already inside of him. 

But he was pretty sure Mrs. MacLeish wasn’t going to accept that as a valid excuse for missing his pre-calc test this morning, so.

Sighing, he flopped over onto his back, swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. He winced, ass aching as he moved, but it was a good hurt—would _be_ a good hurt, all through school, sitting through his lectures and essays and test with the memory of Dean inside him, of the thick, slick weight of his cock rocking him into the mattress, making him come.

_Gotta be quiet for me, okay?_

His cock twitched, painfully, and Sam levered himself out of bed.

He didn't bother with a shower—he had twenty minutes to get out to the bus stop, and he wanted a hot breakfast—just ran his hands through his hair to untangle it, pulled on a clean pair of briefs and his old jeans.  After a moment he rummaged through Dean’s bag for one of his brother’s band tee shirts, pulled it on soft and worn and perfect over his tousled head. Dean would have laughed at him and called him a girl if he’d known, Sam was sure of it, but he just . . . he just liked the feel of it, sometimes, of having Dean’s clothes against his skin even if he couldn’t keep Dean close, and if that made him kin to the pretty little cheerleaders tucked up in their boyfriends’ varsity jackets, well, so be it.

Sam felt a wicked little smile tug at the corner of his mouth at the thought.

Cheerleaders.

He bet his brother would like him in a skirt.


End file.
